


Just Drive

by Korrigan131



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Race fic, Role Reversal, Roleswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korrigan131/pseuds/Korrigan131
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rob Smedley drives for Ferrari, Felipe Massa is his engineer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Drive

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know a huge amount about the other engineers, so they tend to resemble their current or past drivers somewhat...  
> Also, I apologise for holding this race on an entirely imaginary circuit!
> 
> Michael Schumacher - Ferrari team principal  
> Rob Smedley - Ferrari driver  
> Felipe Massa - Smedley’s engineer  
> Andrea Stella - Ferrari driver  
> Fernando Alonso - Stella’s engineer  
> Guillaume Rocquelin - Red Bull driver  
> Ciaron Pilbeam - Red Bull driver  
> Dave Robson - McLaren driver

**Saturday:**  
  
“You have to concentrate better, look, you must be on the throttle much faster here, no? And here,” Felipe taps the monitor with his pen, “brake later. This corner is easy, should be no problem for you.”  
  
Rob nods, pulling off his racing gloves and stretching his fingers.  
  
“Rob, you are not paying attention to me.” Felipe whacks his pen against Rob’s helmet.  
  
“I am, I am Felipe.” Rob bats his engineer’s hand away. “Brake later, accelerate sooner.”  
  
“That is what I always say. Which corner?” Rob isn’t given the chance to answer. “See, you were not listening.” Felipe can’t help but smile though, and Rob was listening really. Felipe’s voice drops, not that anyone’s listening in to their radio right now. “You pay attention now, and do well today, then later I will make it worth it.”  
  
Rob's grin is hidden inside his helmet, but his expression is betrayed by the creases around his sparkling eyes.  
  
“Bribery,” he replies, looking up at his engineer.  
  
“It works, no?” Rob laughs. “But I have a better reason for you to try even harder.” Felipe stands up straight and flicks through some paperwork on his clipboard.  
  
“There’s a better reason?”  
  
Felipe says nothing, but pauses in his flicking of pages to grin briefly again. “Because,” this time he’s tapping the clipboard, “Andrea is faster than you only in that sector. This is a good circuit for you, you know? Perhaps if you make that perfect now, this afternoon you qualify in front, maybe.” Felipe’s trying not to sound excited, but they both know just what that would mean. Andrea Stella has been the number one driver since the moment he joined the team, creating a dynasty where the other driver has always come a decided second, some say barely even recognised as a racer in their own right. Rob has never had chance to prove himself as more than just the new boy filling the second seat, and he’s never beaten Stella. This could be his chance... And even if they don’t beat him, they could still be on course for Rob’s first podium. Rob feels a flush of adrenaline making his pulse stutter, as Felipe goes back to waving his pen at the very expensive monitors, pointing out the minutiae of the last laps.  
  
*  
  
Massa isn’t an obvious race engineer – he’s young, temperamental, arrogant, stubborn, overly enthusiastic, inappropriately playful, and with a reputation for nagging his driver, stating the obvious, and yelling on the radio. But he has an inhuman knack for spotting the tiniest mistakes, and for knowing just what changes to a car can get the best out of his driver (and he doesn’t shut up until he gets them). Ever since Massa covered for Smedley’s usual race engineer, all those months ago, his performance had improved steadily, until he was challenging his teammate (and Ferrari were starting to worry that their previously docile second driver was gunning for greater things). Now Smedley will have no one else on the other end of his (famously permanently open) radio.  
  
But then Smedley isn’t an obvious driver – he’s so tall that it’s a wonder that he fits in the tiny cockpit, and he’s softly spoken and unassuming, with remarkably practical taste in sunglasses (for the most part), and he’s never been seen in a baseball cap. It’s not surprising that people who don’t know them often get them wrong way round, much to Massa’s indignation and Smedley’s wry amusement.  
  
*  
  
Mechanics change the tyres and unhook the car from its life-support of cables and machines whilst Rob pulls on his gloves and flicks down his visor, and he heads back out onto the track. Felipe’s voice crackles in his ear.  
  
“This lap, you will get it right. No more excuses, Mr Smedley.”  
  
“Yes sir,” he replies, smiling.  
  
“Stop teasing.”  
  
“I would never dare tease, teasing is your job.”  
  
“Sh, concentrate on the driving.” Rob can practically _hear_ Felipe sticking his tongue out at him, and he chuckles. “Now remember, warming up the tyres this first lap, then go gently on the second, and then we will try for a good time. First tyres, second slow, third fast. Fourth fast too if we have time.”  
  
Rob trundles out of the pit lane and onto the track, weaving back and forth, and keeping out of the way of the drivers setting times. As he comes around to the start line it’s a couple of burnouts, and then he sets off at a comfortable pace. Blue flags wave at him as an HRT, on a flying lap, comes storming past.  
  
“So you know, that is the only time you will be overtaken by Hispania this weekend. Or you will be in trouble. And not the fun kind.”  
  
Rob laughs. “I hope they’re not broadcasting this!” It’s so easy to forget that the world tunes in sometimes, when they’re cocooned in each other’s voices and insulated by engine noise.  
  
“Better, better. Your line is much tidier through turn six. Now keep it that way when you speed up.”  
  
“I’m liking the changes to the brakes,” Rob mentions. “Makes the approach to nine and ten much easier.”  
  
“I know you do, you said yesterday.”  
  
“Well I still like them. They were a good idea.”  
  
“My ideas are always good. Now stop talking, focus. There is only time left now for one fast lap.”  
  
Rob hits the throttle hard and opens his wing as he exits the final turn, onto the start/finish straight, the car leaping forward. He’ll never get tired of the acceleration, the roar of the engine around him, the smooth swing of the car as he kisses the apexes of the first two corners; perfection. Felipe stays quiet throughout – there’s nothing he needs to say right now, until one minute and twenty six point seven five seconds later Rob crosses the finish line.  
  
“Fantastic, you are perfect!” exclaims the voice in his ear. Rob’s grinning; is it bad that sometimes the best part of this is just making his engineer as delighted as only he can be? It’s probably not the best motivation, but it works for Rob. “You will scare Red Bull with that time!”  
  
“And the other thing?”  
  
“I said you were perfect already, no?”  
  
Rob whoops out a deafening _Fuck yes!_ that has Felipe pulling his headphones away from his head to escape, half a second too late, but laughing all the same.  
  
“ _Take that_ , Stella! You proud of me sunshine?”  
  
“I am always proud of you.” Felipe’s voice is bright, and Rob can just picture him, perched on the pit wall, making rude faces (and possibly gestures) at Fernando and the rest of Stella’s engineers. Ever the professional, his Felipe...  
  
*  
  
Ferrari make it through to Q3 comfortably and without any drama. The minutes are counting down in the last session now, Red Bull, McLaren, and Ferrari fighting for the front. Rob’s running consistently behind his teammate, last of the front six, but just ahead of the two Mercedes. Force India didn’t even leave the garage.  
  
“Stella has boxed from third. You have time for two more fast laps, two fast laps. He will not have time for another lap if you jump him now.” Felipe chuckles. “They did not think we would stay out. Only you and the Red Bulls. Lots of clear air. You can do this. C’mon now, go, go!”  
  
*  
  
 _"And we’re counting down now to the end of Q3 here, and it’s looking like a similar story to the rest of the season – Red Bull on pole, with McLaren and Ferrari battling it out for the second row._  
  
Well that’s odd, Smedley’s still out on track.  
  
I don’t know what that’s about, Stella’s in the pits, what’s going on over at Ferrari?  
  
No idea. It’s just Smedley and the two Red Bulls out now, plenty of track to go round. And Rocquelin’s just set a twenty four **point six dead, cementing** that pole position!  
  
We knew Red Bull were saving themselves ‘til the end of the session, but **wow,** what a time!  
  
 **Oh! Pilbeam’s Red Bull has spun off at turn five!** He’s beached in the gravel, and that’s his qualifying over, he’ll have to be happy with third, behind Robson’s McLaren, but he’s still in front of Stella’s Ferrari.  
  
Are we going to see a yellow flag for that then?  
  
No, I don’t think so, he’s clear of the track and there’s no debris.  
  
And we’re down to the final seconds, and Smedley’s crossed the line just in time for a last lap, and **just check out that time!** He’s moved up from sixth to **fourth** , he’s knocked Stella down into fifth by the smallest margin!  
  
He’s not going to be happy with that, is he?  
  
No he **certainly** is not. Rocquelin made it across the line in time too, but no, he’s pitting. It’s not like anyone’s going to beat his time, that’ll be his eighth pole position this season, for sure.  
  
Just Smedley on track now, and look at those sector times! **Where** has this man been hiding??  
  
And he crosses the line, with a one twenty four point **nine eight** which takes him into **third place! What** a finish to an incredible qualifying.  
  
Ooh, and Alonso, Stella’s engineer, is not looking happy on the pit wall, that could make for an interesting race tomorrow.  
  
Though really, after his final run of free practice this morning, we should have realised that Smedley’s got some serious pace..."  
  
*  
  
When Rob leaps out of the car he grabs Felipe by the waist and hoists him into the air. He doesn’t know whether the rest of the team will be happy with him or not, but right now, that doesn’t matter, not when his engineer is _brimming_ with pride like that.  
  
*  
  
 **BBC coverage – post qualifying:**  
  
“Rob Smedley, just the man.” Rob is pulled into a familiar and back-slapping hug with David Coulthard, before being passed a microphone.  
  
“That was a _stunning_ qualifying, really it was,” says Jake.  
  
“Thank you,” Rob replies modestly. From behind his sunglasses his gaze flicks to Felipe, who is glaring jealously at David, and Rob has to stifle a chuckle. “Couldn’t have done it without my engineer though.”  
  
“Of course not, of course not,” replies Eddie. Rob’s glad he’s wearing his sunglasses when he’s faced with _that_ shirt... “But tell us, where on earth did you find all that extra time?!”  
  
“If I told you that,” Rob nods his head towards his engineer, still sulking out of camera shot, “he’d have to kill you. Or me, not sure which...” They laugh, and Rob starts to ramble on with something generic about changes on the car, but he’s not paying attention really, just watching the involuntary smile that has crept onto his engineer’s face. Yep, that’s his motivation, right there.  
  
*  
  
 **Sunday:**  
  
Rob stands under the umbrella on the grid, Felipe nervously gabbling through the last bits of the telemetry, _remember this, don’t forget that,_ but Rob’s not listening. The whole grid is twitchy – the weather had changed unexpectedly overnight, and whilst it may only be drizzle right now, the revised forecast says _torrential_ later, and that’s never a good thing.  
  
“Felipe,” Rob interrupts. “Whatever you’re saying, I know.” Felipe stops mid-sentence, clamps the clipboard across his chest, and huddles closer to Rob under the umbrella. They stand in silence together, Rob with his headphones in, Felipe scanning the crowds of mechanics who swarm around the cars.  
  
“I do not like the rain.”  
  
Rob looks down. “No one here does, Felipe.”  
  
“Makes me cold. You have an engine to keep you warm.” He pouts, and Rob rolls his eyes. He slips his arm around his engineer’s shoulders, pulling him close, the bright red waterproof jacket crunching against his overalls.  
  
“Would you like to try driving instead then?”  
  
Felipe huffs, and looks up at Rob. “No, is ok. I get a roof,” and his smile is back.  
  
Rob snorts. “Alright for some, eh? Anyway, aren’t you meant to be encouraging me or something?”  
  
“I was. You told me to sh.”  
  
“That wasn’t encouraging.”  
  
“It was, is just... Robson is very good in the rain, you know? You must be careful.”  
  
“I’m good in the rain too Felipe. I think it comes with being British.”  
  
The press are starting to leave the grid now, drivers beginning to climb into cars.  
  
“You will be fine.” Felipe’s expression is determined – it’s almost more of an order than a reassurance.  
  
“With you there, of course I will.” Rob sneaks a squeeze of Felipe’s hand, before pulling on his helmet as his engineer heads back to the pits.  
  
*  
  
The track is greasy from the drizzle; the first corner is carnage for the midfield and the safety car is out before the lap is over. But not before Robson has pulled past Rocquelin and taken the lead, whilst Stella tried and failed to get past Pilbeam, who tried to get past Smedley. But the Brit in the Ferrari was having none of that, and held on tight through the first few corners until the gaps started to stretch open.  
  
The track begins to dry out, the sky brightens, and the race settles in. Stella makes it up into fourth, the front two swap over again, and even the midfield breaks into scraps of twos and threes, whilst the casualties of the first corner are lapped.  
  
Then the downpour comes. A Sauber aquaplanes into the tech-pro barriers. Force India and Williams tangle and spin off into the gravel. Corners are cut, mistakes are made. The spray is opaque, there’s a queue in the pitlane for wets, and the forecast says it’s going to get worse before it gets better. When Rocquelin goes wide, gifting the lead to Robson, they call out the safety car. For the next nine laps the field bunches, tyres cool, tempers fray.  
  
The rain stops as suddenly as it started. As the spray reduces Smedley finds that his mirrors are full of the bright red of his teammate’s car.  
  
“Oh boy.”  
  
“You are better in the wet, and he cannot use DRS in this weather. Focus on the restart. Focus on the restart and you will be ok.”  
  
The safety car goes in, the restart goes well. Smedley keeps his second place, but Stella’s hot on his heels.  
  
“Shit, Felipe, I can’t shake him.”  
  
“Stop trying, just concentrate on driving.” But that’s easier said than done, and it’s not long before Rob skids as he tries to brake too late, and Stella sails past.  
  
“FUCK. Fucking shit damn bugger fuck!”  
  
“Calm down, is ok, you are still close, you can take this back.” Smedley’s not lost much, and he’s got the upper hand on damp track like this. The gap closes again, and by the next lap he’s on Stella’s tail, looking for a chance at every turn.  
  
  
 _"He’s gone_ **round the outside!** How on **earth** did he do that?!  
  
That was an **incredible** pass from Smedley on his teammate there! Pure class."  
  
  
“YES! _That’s_ my Rob! Fantastic!”  
  
But Stella isn’t giving up that easily, and the cars are evenly matched. The next thing they know they’re wheel to wheel on a sweeping bend, and everyone’s expecting a shower of carbon fibre and torn rubber. Felipe can barely watch. Smedley has to yield, and Stella takes the place back. Rob’s swearing again, dangerously close behind him still. This could get nasty. There’s a close call on the next corner that has Felipe swearing as hard as his driver.  
  
“ _Jesus_ , Rob! Be careful, please!” Felipe steals a glance to the other end of the prat perches, Spanish curses clearly audible even through his headphones, and he doesn’t like what he sees; furious expressions, conspiratorial whispering, eyes flicking momentarily to his end of the pitwall... he doesn’t like it one bit. He drops his voice. “Rob, be careful. We do not want them to get Michael involved.” Because Ferrari have a main driver, and a second driver. That’s the way it’s always been. And second drivers are reminded of their place if they start to forget... Felipe will switch the radio off if he has to, because he won’t sit by and let Michael tell _his_ driver to back off. But their team principal doesn’t seem to be paying attention to either end of the pitwall, just sitting remarkably calmly right in the middle, like the eye of the storm.  
  
The next two laps are excruciating. Felipe can’t sit still, watching Rob desperately trying to pass Andrea, who might as well be driving a bus for all the room he’s leaving. Rob’s losing his temper, and it’s showing.  
  
“That’s more than one move! Seriously, what the fuck is he doing?!”  
  
“Rob, stay cool baby! Is ok, you can do this! Just stay cool. The stewards can see.”  
  
The final few laps. The racing line is bone dry, unlike the rest of the track. The weaving is under investigation, but nothing’s been said yet. The last lap. The last chance. But Rob’s not done yet... He flicks his car off the racing line and onto the black, wet tarmac, spray flying up behind him. Stella moves to defend, creating his own cloud of spray which almost entirely veils his car. Felipe stops breathing. At the last moment Rob flicks back the other way, brakes later than he has any right to, and dives down the inside of the corner, bouncing over the kerb to take the place back, and stamping on the accelerator to pull out a good second’s lead by the next corner. Felipe’s off his seat, hands thrown in the air, clipboard knocked onto the floor, yelling congratulations and endearments down the radio, “ _I love you!_ ” and “ _You are perfect, you are amazing!_ ” over and over again, until they’re interrupted by another bout of swearing and angry hands thumping on the computers – Stella’s fury made him careless, and Rocquelin just stormed past to deny him even third place. Felipe can’t help but laugh out loud, especially at the furious glaring eyebrows of Alonso, but he shuts up suddenly when he finds Michael watching him. The boss just smiles though, slipping off his chair to slap Felipe on the back.  
  
“Well done, both of you.” He lowers his voice. “And about time too.” Michael winks, and leaves Felipe momentarily stunned into silence.  
  
  
 _"And that’s the chequered flag! Robson’s taken the win for McLaren, Smedley in second for Ferrari, and Rocquelin in third for Red Bull._ **What** a race!"  
  
*  
  
Rob stands on the bonnet and tears off his helmet, his entire face crinkled into a grin, before jumping down, where Felipe leaps into his arms so hard that he almost knocks his driver over.  
  
*  
  
It doesn’t need to be a win, because it’s Rob’s first podium, and that’s quite special enough. First is for another day, and they know that's in reach now. The other two drivers make sure that Rob is completely drenched in champagne, but most of his own bottle goes over his engineer’s head. And right there, eyes shining, sticky and delighted and high on adrenaline, Rob presses a kiss to Felipe’s lips. The world will talk, for sure, but who really cares? They don’t.  
  
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”  
  
Felipe smiles, smug and proud and everything else all together. “I know,” and he shrugs, still smiling.  
  
Rob laughs, slipping his arm around his engineer’s waist, and holding the trophy aloft in the other. “Of course you know. You know everything.”  
  
“Is my job, no?” Rob swats at the top of Felipe’s head, laughing still. “Hey, be nice! You need me.”  
  
“You know I do, sunshine,” Rob replies fondly. “And I love you too, by the way.”  
  
Felipe blushes madly, and there’s a pause whilst they gather the trophy and the now empty champagne bottle, and start to leave the podium.  
  
“Rob?” Felipe’s face is uncharacteristically serious. “I meant it.”  
  
Rob can’t grin any wider, but he takes off his black second place cap and plops it unceremoniously on his engineer’s head.  
  
“I know you did. So did I. Now, let’s go celebrate...”


End file.
